


(Their) footprints of life

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Caretaking, Depression, Drama, F/M, Family Feels, Grief/Mourning, Hints of future romance, Loss, Mental Health Issues, Nile is forever the only adult on this show, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: There is a smell to grief.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman
Comments: 3
Kudos: 116





	(Their) footprints of life

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own "The Old Guard" or any of the show's characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: When I finished the movie, I was really struck by how strong Nile and Booker's bond was. Despite Booker's actions. This is meant to fit in four years after the initial events of the movie and in a time period before Quynh found Booker.
> 
> Warnings: grief, loss, depression, mental illness, references Booker's depressive spiral, alcoholism, angst, drama, care-taking, hints of a future romance.

There is a smell to grief.

It was there when her dad died.

In the fading scent that lingered in the back of the closet. The starchy smell of dust on the shoulders of his favorite black suit. It was the buttery scent of spiced vanilla that always seemed to be warming in the wax melt on the kitchen counter. The char of burnt food being scraped from the pan on days when just getting out of bed was a struggle.

It was different for everyone, but still completely accessible if you knew what to look for.

For Booker it was spider web husks, cracked book spines and stale currant wine. It was crusty bottle necks. Crystallized stains. Trendy little slabs of honey-comb dotted with purple where the bees found lavender. It was cold metal and the mummified hopes of nothing but oblivion. At least until the hangover started.

She didn't knock when she finally tracked him down. A few years ago she would have. Maybe even a few hours ago. She had good intentions right up until she found him passed out on a threadbare couch, surrounded by shitty bottles of booze and a Glock that was too close to his softer parts for her liking.

After that she was just tired.

He looked at her bleary-eyed. Shuffling in the direction of the wine bottle she'd already dumped down the sink when he woke up. He wavered there uncertainly, a puppet with its strings cut. Purposeless, sure, but too dumb to see it was free. She said nothing, watching him come to terms with the red stain around the drain before shaking his head like she was some sort of mirage he wasn't really seeing.

It had been four years and both of them looked exactly the same. Despite Booker's best efforts to drink himself to death. Privately, she wondered how many times he actually had. Something told her she didn't want to know the answer.

"Its 5am," he posed carefully. Tired, but with the air of a child caught doing something they knew their folks wouldn't approve of.

In the apartment above, a baby started crying. A sleepy herald to groggy, short-paced footsteps from one room to another before the cries slowly eased. It was a slice of life recognizable anywhere. She wondered how Booker could stand it. Considering it seemed to be the exact thing he was trying to forget.

"I know," she answered crisply.

He blinked again. Then seemed to come to some sort of decision. Sighing without sound as he mumbled something in French, turned on the sink and ducked his head under the spray. The grunt's favorite way to sober up fast. She would know.

"You can't keep doing this, Book," she told him as he dripped across the worn tiles. Pawing at a stained dishtowel hanging from a nail on the wall to dry off. The lines of his face more pronounced in the shadows as the ends of his hair kissed his cheekbones.

He snorted, folding himself into the chair opposite her at the table. Her nose twitched at the backwash. Even the air that wheezed out of his stuffed nose smelled drunk.

His derision had a point, of course.

He _could_ keep doing this.

That was the problem.

"You really want to die?" she asked finally, hands braced against the table. Feeling like she had in that pub before they parted ways. Like she was fighting for something important and was probably going to lose. "After living like this?"

He didn't bite. But he didn't get the flask out of his breast pocket either. Instead, he let his hand rest there, just to the right of his heart.

"Do the others know you're here?" he asked instead. Voice rough, but delicately quiet. Like he expected her to disappear between blinks.

She cocked her head.

"Probably," she offered. Like she wasn't concerned either way. She'd come alone, but that didn't mean the others weren't watching. She figured they would be, considering she said she was going to France.

It had been four years.

 _Only_ four years, Joe had pointed out when she'd texted from the airport.

But she'd caught glimpses of the man's sketchbook lately.

They were all still angry. But that didn't mean they didn't miss him.

"How is everyone?" he asked tentatively. Like he wasn't sure he was allowed to ask. Something about the way he said it hurt the inside of her ribs.

"They miss you."

He accepted it easily. Chin tilting downward, minus a smile. Apparently the feeling was mutual underneath all the self-loathing. The separation was wearing on everyone. Especially Andy. Booker was a strangely shaped hole she couldn't fill. She'd tried. But she couldn't. He was more important than he knew, if she was being honest. She had her own place. Her own way of fitting in. Meanwhile, Booker's absence was a lonely, angry thing.

It had the possibility of festering if they let it.

And maybe that was part of the reason she was here.

"I'm where I'm supposed to be," he reminded her, pushing his hair back if a way that made her itch to fix. Wondering if he could read minds or if she was just that obvious. Probably a little of both, if she knew him at all.

She eyed him critically.

"And how's that working out for you?" She needled, eyebrow arched because she was afraid he might crumple if she fixed him with anything softer. "Being alone?"

He didn't say anything.

She couldn't blame him.

It had been a low blow.

"I did this to myself," he answered, like _she_ was the one being difficult.

But she hadn't forgotten.

"Yeah, you did," she echoed. Letting it exist there with them. Heavy. But possible. Liking how it made him restless.

Every time he shifted, the chair creaked. And she was hearing a lot of the sound. Watching him watch her as the quiet grew. But he wasn't the only one watching. Through the open gape of his shirt, the thin line of a scar glowed across the left of his chest. It was something he must have gotten before all this. Before he died. She wanted to ask, but she knew better. That wasn't why she was here.

She twitched her nose in an obvious tell.

"Have a shower," she told him, hands braced on the table like she was about to get up. "You reek."

The restless moving in the chair across from her stilled.

His mouth turned down, sagging.

Looking up at her with eyes like sorrow.

But even then he forced a smile for her.

"It was good to see you, Nile."

Her lip quirked.

"I'll be here when you're done," she hummed, ignoring his assumptions. Making her way to the fridge and sighing when she saw how empty it was. Holding the door open with the cock of her hip as she decided what could be salvaged from the dehumidified mess. "'I'm making breakfast."

She knew that if she looked back, his eyes would be asking her to promise.

She didn't look and he never opened his mouth.

Instead, the scrape of a chair stood in for a nod. Listening to the rattle of pipes as the shower turned on. Smiling to herself at his soft curse when he slipped then caught himself on the wet porcelain. Walls the exact kind of thin that she could hear him lean heavily into the tiles, sighing with pleasure and relief when the water finally heated to temperature

It felt like a start.


End file.
